


Disaster

by ameh



Category: Blink-182
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 16:22:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7899682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameh/pseuds/ameh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a story based off the song "Disaster" by blink-182.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disaster

          Leaves crackle under a young man’s feet, deafened only by the sound of his heartbeat loud in his ears.  His mind isn’t able to form coherent thoughts above all the static it’s filled with.  He isn’t even sure who he is at this point.  His hair stands on end; he doesn’t know if it’s due to the chill in the air or the spookiness of it all, and honestly, he can’t be bothered to dwell on it.  Distant sounds echo in the background, yet his eyes stay fixated ahead of him.  Through all the white noise, all the sounds he’s hearing, a deep voice stands out in his mind.  It sparks a sense of familiarity, comfort, anticipation, and... dread.  
           **Pure fucking dread.**  
          The clouds shift, letting enough sunlight spill through to illuminate the scene ahead of him.  His eyes adjust, allowing flecks of green to sparkle through golden brown irises.  A group of people crowd ahead around a somber moment, and an eerie feeling creeps up the young man’s spine as he notices he’s in a cemetery.  One foot in front of the other, he makes his way forward against his better judgement.  
          All eyes fall on him when he finally approaches, and he begins to notice how weird all these people are.  A tall, older man stands off to the side of everyone, gun resting firmly against his suit in his shriveled old hands. His eyes are black, sunken in, yet seem to take in everything going on, waiting for one wrong move from anyone.  Two little girls are several feet away from the old man, sitting cross-legged on the ground.  One has her back to the other, the seemingly older one french-braiding her little sister’s light blonde hair.  A small lady sheathed in a black robe stands near a crumbling gravestone with strange markings on it.  Her face is hidden by the shadow of her clothing, but a few strands of grey hair whip past her face in the chilled breeze.  Other faceless people stand around, all watching him as if they’re reading his mind.  
          That familiar voice blows past him again, like it’s being carried in the cold autumn wind.  He can almost hear words in it.  His mind tries to grasp onto it and make sense of it, only to warp it into some inhuman sound.  However, something in the voice stirs within him the desire to keep pushing forward, and he finds himself putting one foot in front of the other again.  He pushes through the faceless people until he comes up to an object that fills him with a fear like he’s never felt before - a casket.  People crowd in behind him, blocking any escape route he might have had.  
          Adrenaline rushes through him.  He can feel his lungs aching for air, but he can’t seem to make himself breathe.  The lump in his throat grows heavier, as does the sinking feeling in his stomach.  A single word flashes into his mind over and over, being repeated by the same voice he keeps hearing in his head.  
          “Disaster.”  
          Why?  He doesn’t know.  All he knows is the last thing he wants to do is look into the casket, but it’s the only option he has now.  He peers over into the open coffin, and the entire world stops.  
          There, staring back at him, was none other than himself - **Thomas Matthew DeLonge**.  The empty, hollow eyes of the body in front of him burn right through him as his mind goes completely blank and images of his entire life flash before his eyes.

 "Look, man, my dad found this guitar.  Thought you'd want it?"  
           _”Come on, kids, we’re going out to get school clothes today!  Shon, stop picking on your brother.  Kari, no, sit in the back with the boys.  Yes, you have to go, Tom.  Sigh, please, just...  You guys behave.  Your father doesn't need to be in a worse mood.”  
          _ "Why do you want to play guitar anyway, Tom?  You already played an instrument in school." _  
**”Having alcohol on school property is against the rules.  You are hereby expelled.”**  
          _ ”I told you I could climb the fucking street lamp, Tom!  What?  How am I going to get down?  I’m going to fucking jump, dumbass!  Watch!” _  
”You mean you got the four-track?  We're going to do a demo?!  Fuck yeah!”  
           **”Your father and I are getting a divorce.”**  
          _ ”Fuck, that was such a good show!  Did you see that girl take off her shirt for us in the crowd?  Tom?  Tom!  Hey!  You’re druuunk!  Wait, no, that’s not your bed, come on.  We’re staying here for free, let’s just...  Come on, let’s just sleep on the floor.” _  
**"We want to sign blink to our label."**  
          _ ”No, dude, I really love you, like...  Shhh, I am not that drunk, I’m confessing!  Shhh. I love you, okay?  Like the kind of love you where I want to hold your hand and give you candy.  Wh-what, why candy?  Because fuck you, that’s why candy, rude ass, why are you interrupting me?” __  
"We absolutely want your band in this movie - it's perfect for you!"  
           **"Oh my god, dude, you are fucking awesome!  That sounded so damn cool, like...  Fuck!  You have to be our new drummer, okay?"**  
          "Headlining spot on a national tour?  Dude, how did- fuck, it doesn't matter!  I'm so fucking stoked for you!"  
           ”Dammit, that was awesome!  That was so fucking awesome!  Fuck yeah, man, blink-182 is here to fuck all of your dads!  Come here, Tom, I fucking love you the most!”  
           **”Tom?  Babe, can you hear me?  Um, so I know this might be a bad time, but...  I took the pregnancy test, and, uh...  I’m pregnant.”**  
          "Skin cancer.  We can get all of it since it was caught early, though."  
          ”Tom, do you even realize how many people were out there?  This is a sold-out show.  Fucking sold-out!  There are thousands of people out there, and you just showed them all your ass.”  
           **"Your back has been injured so severely from years of strain you've put on it.  Your only option is surgery."**  
          ”No, I promise everything is okay.  Hey, shh, just come here, fall in my arms again.”

Fall in my arms again.

**_Fall in my arms again._ **

**Mark.**

          His eyes snap open, met with nothing but darkness.  It’s suddenly much colder out.  He reaches for the sides of his jacket to pull it around himself more, only to realize he has no jacket.  He looks down.  His clothes are entirely different.  Instead of the tight black pants, Macbeths, and leather Angels and Airwaves jacket he was previously wearing, he’s faced with baggy black shorts, high top Converse, and a Hurley shirt.  His eyes wander to his arm, a single fresh tattoo adorning his pale skin - two black lines going all the way around his forearm and a small bunny with jeans on in the middle of a red circle.  A tiny smile plays on his lips before vanishing with the realization that he’s eighteen again.  
          He looks around.  None of the weird faceless people are here; in fact there’s not a soul around.  The pale full moon peeks through the clouds as the cold winter wind sinks through his skin.  
           “Fall in my arms again.”  
          That voice!  There it was again!  He could hear it clearly now, and he recognizes it as the voice of his best friend his brother, his soul mate - **Mark Hoppus**.  All control leaves his body, he finds himself running as fast as his legs will take him towards the direction the voice came from.  
          ”Mark!  Maaaark!  Where the fuck are you?”  
           _Silence._  
          ”Mark, what the fuck, man?!  I need you!  Where are you?  Mark!”  
           _More silence._  
          He runs until his legs feel like they’ll give out, desperation now clinging to every cry he forces his throat to emit.  In one last ditch effort, he screams out his best friend’s name as he falls to his knees, his legs finally unable to carry him anymore.  
          He notices a shift in the atmosphere and looks up to see countless people surrounding him.  Not the creepy faceless people from the cemetery; no, these are new faceless people.  Some of the faces he can make out, but there’s no one he can recognize.  They’re all facing forward, so he follows their gaze.  
          There stands Mark, bass held close to his body, the lights positioned on him, making his silhouette seem otherworldly.  He’s on stage, but not with Tom.  Mark is with +44.  Something deep inside Tom aches, like everything he held dear crumbled, but he never waivers.  He keeps his eyes focused on Mark, watching him move across the stage, his aura radiating around him.   His soul, it floats like a dove with its wings outstretched, sailing across the sky.  Mark stands infront of his mic and sings beautifully crafted lyrics about losing someone he loves, almost screaming them in anguish.  Tom continues to watch as another songs starts, only to have the air knocked out of him when he hears Mark sings the words to the next song.  
           _“Please understand, this isn’t just goodbye..”_  
          Tom feels the sting of every word deep inside him.  His chest grows heavy, and he can feel the tears building up in his eyes.  
           _“I listen to you talk, but talk is cheap.”_  
          It's like a dagger to Tom's chest, sorrow consuming him as Mark's  words scream of their love.  The tears finally spill over, and no one around him notices.  No one notices how bad he’s shaking, no one notices the sobs escaping his throat.  No one notices him at all.  
           _”And my mouth is filled with b-blood.. from t-trying not to speak.”_  
          He can see how much this hurts Mark to sing - his  lips stutter with flavour of the pain Tom had put him through.  He can see the way his aura shrinks around him, how his spirit seems crushed, the way he’s forcing his voice to sing this song.  He can read the pain on his face as he recounts the fights they had.  Then, it finally dawns on him.

They never made up.

          The funeral was for Tom, because Tom was successful in one of his overdose attempts.

          Mark _can't_ shake the taste of the blood  he’s singing about.

Tom never got to tell Mark he was sorry.

          He gasps in a panic as he sits up, his lungs trying hard to fill themselves with much needed air.  Attempts are made to push himself out of bed, but the sheets are tangled around him, stuck to his sweat-drenched body.  He finally frees himself and gets up, pushing his soaked hair off his forehead as he walks out of the room.  Safely in another room, away from anyone else, he switches on the lights with shaky hands and sits down with his cell phone to his ear.  
           _One ring._  He doesn’t even remember dialing the number.  Thank fuck it’s not dark in this room anymore.   _Two rings._  Oh god, what if he doesn’t answer?  What if the light goes off and Tom is left in the dark again?   _Three rin-_  
          ”Hello?  Tom?”  
          Words try to come out but fail.  
          ”Tom?  Fuck, are you okay, man?”  
          One of the light bulbs flicker in the room, and Tom jumps.  The panic comes out in his voice.  ”The light...  I...   I'm scared of the dark, and I think the light is going to go out, Mark.”  
          Tom tries to keep his cool, but it’s all to no avail.  He scolds himself for failing, then for even trying in the first place.  Mark must think he’s such a wimp.  Then again, Mark has seen him in his worst states.  Mark is the only one that _can_ calm him down.  His breathing is still rapid, Mark can hear it.  
          ”Tom, look, it’s okay.  Breathe.  Inhaaaale...  Exhaaaale...  Deep breaths.”  
          After a few minutes of Mark talking Tom down and helping him get his breathing back in order, Tom leans back on the couch and tries to relax as much as possible.  Sighing, he apologizes for calling like this again, explaining that he had a fucking terrifying nightmare.  
          ”It’s okay, Tom.  Trust me, it’s okay.  That’s what I’m here for.  Now, what happened?  What was the nightmare?   What do you fear, my love?”  
          A little while passes.  Tom explains his dream to Mark, explaining how he never got to apologize, explaining how he watched his own funeral.  The older man can hear in Tom’s voice whenever he’s starting to get too worked up again, and continuously comforts him.  Random bouts of static work themselves through the call, but they both ignore it.  After a while, the reception starts to cut out intermittently.  
          Mark interrupts Tom, his voice still having that ever-calming effect as he says, “Shit, hold on, you’re breaking up.”   
          Tom smiles.


End file.
